


Rikkisuudeltu

by rohkeutta



Series: Mesmeria [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bickering, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Japan, M/M, Pablo Neruda's Poetry, Poetry Nerd Bucky Barnes, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Prequel, Singing Oil Heaters From Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 12:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8102374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohkeutta/pseuds/rohkeutta
Summary: Bucky suppresses his laughter, but his eyes are twinkling with glee, when he turns to glance at Steve. “That’s not what your dick says, sweetheart,” he sing-songs and wiggles his ass, making Steve grunt.

  “Really?” Steve asks, sneaking his hand back under Bucky’s shirt and dragging his fingers lightly through Bucky’s happy trail, until he finds a nipple and rolls it between his fingertips. Bucky gasps. “What does my dick say, then?”

  “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees,” Bucky, the insufferable smart-ass, quotes.
Another sort-of-prequel to Mesmeria.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I was talking about Kyoto with TheFlailing in Mesmeria's comments, and this came out - thanks to my tender memories about satan's singing oil heaters, which belt out beepy versions of horrible songs when they shut down or run out of fuel, usually in the middle of the night. You don't know awful wake-ups until you're awoken by a monotone rendering of the alphabet song at five a.m. Also, the old houses in Japan are generally really fucking cold in the winter and early spring, so duvet burritos and oil heaters are the only way to survive there.
> 
> Rikkisuudeltu is yet again [a song by CMX](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wAzjvWKK3wU), and it means someone or something that has been kissed raw.
> 
> Set in 2010. Prepare to be punched in the feelings in the end.
> 
> Huge thanks to Fox and Lys respectively for kicking a little self-faith in me and checking out my comma abuse. Love ya guys.

Steve startles awake in the middle of the night, when an unholy beeping starts. He flails around for a moment, until the bundle next to him stirs and says, “Fucking, shitting, _goddamned machine,_ ” and he recognises the beeping as a mechanical rendition of ‘Love me tender’. The oil heater is running out of fuel.

Steve scrambles to his knees from underneath the thick duvet, and fumbles with the switch to turn the heater off before it can wake the whole guesthouse.

“The big-ass yellow button on the right,” Bucky mumbles and hunches deeper into his cocoon.

It’s so dark that Steve can’t see what colors the buttons he’s pressing are, but he must hit the right one, because the monotone singing stops, and a blissful silence falls.

“ _Kiitos Jeesus,_ ” Bucky’s voice warbles, as Steve crawls back under the covers and pulls Bucky’s duvet burrito closer.

“Go back to sleep, sugar,” Steve murmurs, and squeezes the burrito a little. Bucky makes a soft, sleepy sound, and Steve closes his eyes, chasing the sleep.

\----

When he wakes up again, a couple of hours later, it’s already light enough to see, and Bucky has emerged from his blanket roll and squeezed under Steve’s duvet, probably to leech off body heat. His back is pressed flush against Steve’s chest, and Steve’s morning wood is nestled snugly against the curve of Bucky’s ass.

Steve shifts a little, and Bucky’s body responds to the movement: he tilts his ass back subtly, shifts his hips in a little grinding motion. Steve slips his hand under Bucky’s t-shirt, stroking the sleep-warm skin. “Morning,” he murmurs, kissing Bucky’s ear.

Bucky hums, content, and pushes his ass more firmly against Steve’s interested dick. “Morning, honey,” he says, his voice sleep-rough and a little mischievous. “Wanna turn the oil heater on and love me tender?”

Steve can’t help it: he presses his face against Bucky’s shoulder and starts to laugh, warm and happy and here with his completely ridiculous, incredible guy. He laughs until he’s crying, and by then Bucky’s chortling too, shaking with laughter in Steve’s arms.

“You fucker,” Steve chokes out, wiping his face against Bucky’s t-shirt. “You are _so fucking terrible_ , I hate you.”

Bucky suppresses his laughter, but his eyes are twinkling with glee, when he turns to glance at Steve. “That’s not what your dick says, sweetheart,” he sing-songs and wiggles his ass, making Steve grunt.

“Really?” Steve asks, sneaking his hand back under Bucky’s shirt and dragging his fingers lightly through Bucky’s happy trail, until he finds a nipple and rolls it between his fingertips. Bucky gasps. “What does my dick say, then?”

 _“I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees,”_ Bucky, the insufferable smart-ass, quotes, and does something with his hips that makes Steve’s dick jump. “You actually like me quoting Neruda to you?” Bucky’s smirk is audible in his voice. “Good to know.”

Steve groans. “Shut up, asshole, I’ve got a good thing going on here with my fella, and you’re distracting me.”

It makes Bucky laugh, and Steve palms Bucky’s half-hard dick through his thin pajama pants, drawing a pleased exhale out of him.

“Yeah, Steve,” Bucky says, a little breathless. Steve takes that as a green light to start grinding against Bucky slowly, kneading Bucky’s dick until he’s fully hard and moaning against the duvet.

It’s an old house they are staying in; the walls and the sliding doors are thin, and the floor under the tatami mats creaks easily, so they try to be quiet to not disturb other guests. It’s still early, judging by the light.

“Come on,” Bucky pants eventually, when Steve’s been frotting lazily against him for several long minutes, edging him towards the peak and pulling back at the last moment. Bucky pushes his own pajama pants low enough to expose his ass, and Steve knows how to take a hint.

Steve wriggles out of his boxers, and fists his cock to spread the pre-come. Then, he spreads Bucky’s ass a little with his hands, and slides his slick dick between Bucky’s cheeks.

Bucky’s breath hitches, and he tilts his head on the pillow, leaving his neck free for Steve’s kisses. Steve palms his cock again, and Bucky lets out a high, keening sound, not knowing whether to push back against Steve or forward into his hand.

Steve rocks his hips slowly, holding Bucky close. It’s quiet, intimate. Bucky’s closed his teeth around his own hand to keep quiet, but he’s cursing occasionally, muffled and a little testy. Steve strokes the fingers of his free hand slowly up Bucky’s spine, knobbly and warm under the cotton, until he can brush through the short hair and wriggle his hand between Bucky’s jaw and the pillow.

Bucky turns his head a little, pulling back his own hand so that Steve can slip two fingers into his hot, wet mouth. Pressure’s building under Steve’s skin, and he slides his hand from Bucky’s dick to grip his hip, get better leverage to start grinding faster. “Close,” he pants against Bucky’s ear.

The tip of Steve’s cock nudges Bucky’s hole, and Bucky moans brokenly, clenches his ass. He’s still a little loose from last night, when he fingered himself while sucking Steve off, and the head of Steve’s dick catches at the rim.

Bucky gasps loudly around the fingers in his mouth, arches his back so that his ass pushes against Steve’s crotch. Steve’s cock nudges Bucky’s slick hole again, slips a little inside.

Bucky lets out a muffled curse in a language Steve doesn’t recognize, and runs his tongue slowly between Steve’s fingers, sucks a little. The sensation paired with the incredible, slick squeeze of Bucky’s ass around the tip of his dick gets too much, and with another lick by Bucky’s clever tongue, he’s coming, wetting Bucky up.

After he pulls off, Steve rests his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder and tries to catch his breath. Bucky’s body is like a furnace, and his breathing is heavy and fast.

“Jesus,” Steve says, and laughs a little. “Fucking hell.”

Bucky rolls to his back, his eyes bright, flush high on his cheekbones. He’s grinning boyishly, and his skin looks smooth in the dim light when Steve pushes his hands under his shirt, rucking it up and over his head.

“Give your guy a hand, baby,” Bucky says, kicking off his pajama pants and letting his knees fall open. His long, strong legs go on for miles, pale after the long winter in Berlin, and he’s painfully, achingly hard, his cock straining against his stomach and the trail of dark hair leading from his navel to his crotch. Steve’s mouth goes dry at the sight.

Steve sits up, so that he can properly appreciate the view in front of him, and says, “I want to draw you sometime, again.”

Bucky throws his arms over his head and stretches, arching up a little from the futon. He’s always been home in his skin, unabashed and at ease without a lick of clothing. Maybe that’s partly what makes him such a good forger.

“Feel free to do that anytime,” Bucky replies, a familiar, aroused rasp in his throat, and spreads his legs further, “except now. If you don’t fucking finish me off, you’re sleeping on a park bench tonight, and I’m checking into the fanciest hotel in Kyoto.”

Steve reaches down and rubs his fingers against Bucky’s wet hole for a brief moment. Then, he runs his fingertips up Bucky’s thigh to wrap around his cock, and asks in a low voice, “You want it fast or slow, sugar?”

Bucky inhales sharply at the touch, and his voice sounds wrecked when he says, “Do your poison, baby.”

So Steve takes his time with it: he teases Bucky’s dick with gentle, light touches, all the time watching how Bucky’s body responds to him.

Bucky’s writhing on the sheets, his mouth open and eyes closed, squirming for Steve’s touch, flushed down to his nipples. He’s mesmerising in the blue morning light, pale and strong and panting like he’s run a marathon, gripping the pillow under his head with both hands, and Steve loves him so much that it’s ridiculous, _ridiculous_.

“Fuck, Steve, _please_ ,” Bucky says, his voice almost a sob, desperate and eager and teetering so far on the edge that he will tip over any minute.

Steve runs his fingertip up the vein on the underside of Bucky’s dick, circles Bucky’s hole with the forefinger of his other hand, and rubs his perineum slowly with his thumb. Bucky’s almost whining, a low sound in the back of his throat. Steve’s finger reaches the head of Bucky’s dick and strokes just below it, and Bucky’s whole body clenches, his mouth forming a perfect, gorgeous ‘o’, and he comes with a strangled sob.

Steve strokes him through the aftershocks, watching as Bucky comes down from his orgasm: Bucky’s face goes slack, and then his mouth turns into a small, satisfied smile, and he opens his eyes, blue-grey and sparkling in the growing light. His hair’s been getting a bit longer while he’s been waiting for them to get back to Berlin and his usual barber; it’s a mess of sweaty dark curls against the whiteness of the pillowcase. He stretches again, then tugs Steve by the wrist to lie on top of him.

Steve goes easily, draping his larger body over Bucky, mindful of any body parts he might accidentally crush, and presses a kiss on Bucky’s jaw. Bucky puts his arm around Steve’s waist, slips his hand under Steve’s t-shirt to press against warm skin.

They are quiet for a while, enjoying the closeness and letting themselves cool off. Bucky’s brushing his hand through Steve’s hair, and it’s relaxing, Bucky’s short nails scraping against his scalp.

“Let’s take the train to Fushimi today,” Bucky says then, still a little breathless, tracing the slope of Steve’s nose with his finger. “I want to see the shrine again. And I want approximately four salmon _onigiri_ and two of those fucking vile Boss coffees for breakfast.”

“Yeah,” Steve laughs, seizes Bucky’s wrist and kisses his fingertips. “Anything for you, sugar.”

Now that the sweat on their bodies is drying, the coolness of the room starts to register. But neither of them really wants to turn the oil heater back on in fear of getting an earful of monotone Elvis, so Steve pulls the discarded duvet closer and over them, enveloping them in the warmth again.

“Quote some more poetry to me,” he murmurs against Bucky’s neck, looking up when Bucky laughs softly.

Bucky’s eyes are amused and fond, and then he leans up, kisses Steve on the mouth, and murmurs in a throaty voice, _“So I wait for you like a lonely house, till you will see me again and live in me. Till then, my windows ache.”_

“You’re a sap, Barnes,” Steve says, but his voice sounds oddly wet.

“Takes one to know one, Rogers,” Bucky retorts without heat.

Steve kisses him again and says softly, “I’ll live in you forever.”

Bucky smiles at him. “You fucking better.”

\----

Fifteen months later, Bucky’s dead, and Steve thinks, _I am the lonely house._

**Author's Note:**

> ... I'm sorry ok.
> 
> "Kiitos Jeesus" is "Thank you Jesus" in Finnish. Boss coffees mentioned here are those hot canned coffees from vending machines which have so much sugar that your teeth rot in your mouth. Personally, I'd rather buy a cold Mt. Rainier latte from a convience store, but Bucky is a masochist. 
> 
> They are staying in Waraku-An guesthouse in eastern Kyoto, because I love the place and get a lot of amusement from picturing Steve trying to fit into those tiny-ass toilets or under the shower.
> 
> The poems Bucky quotes are [Every Day You Play](http://hellopoetry.com/poem/9920/every-day-you-play/) and [Sonnet LXV](http://lavielivre.tumblr.com/post/42073212254/sonnet-lxv-by-pablo-neruda) by Pablo Neruda.
> 
> My tumblr is [here](http://rohkeutta.tumblr.com) if you feel like yelling about Bucky Barnes, talking about Japan, or reading a lot of reblogged shitposts.


End file.
